Chapter 11 HEATHER
HEATHER
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“That has to be the ugliest hat I’ve ever seen, Twinkle Toes.”
Walking the dirt path beside Justin, I pick up my pace, ignoring his drawled comment.
When Justin mentioned the park as a meeting place, I assumed we’d be sitting on a bench.
That assumption, though, was dashed when he skidded a Toyota Hilux (his roommate’s, I learn later) into the parking lot, two furry Alsatians slobbering ecstatically out the back windows.
No way we’d be sitting still with these two.
“You raid Grandma’s closet for that hat?”
I sigh. “You’re not going to let it go, are you?”
“My diabolical nature won’t allow me to.”
Caught between annoyance and manners, I say, “My skin reacts badly to the sun.”
“How badly?”
“It gets red and blotchy. Then it gets itchy.”
“You heard of sunscreen?”
“It doesn’t help.” Which is why I’m wearing a straw hat with the widest brim I can find. I should’ve removed the plastic flowers, though.
“You’ve got lovely skin,” he says. “Hard to imagine it flaring up like that.”
The comment is said so offhandedly a couple of seconds pass before it dawns on me he’s paid me a compliment. “Thanks,” I say awkwardly.
After a short silence, I gesture to the two Alsatians running ahead of us. “Shouldn’t they be on a leash?”
“Says who?”
“The sign back there.”
“I’m not much for rules, Twinkle Toes.”
“Please don’t call me that.”
“Twinkle Toes?” He shrugs. “The name seems to have stuck. You’re all irritating cheer and naivety. But I’ll compromise. How about TT? Then if the mood hits, you can opt for Terrible Tyrant.”
“Heather,” I grit out. “My name is Heather.”
“Heather, huh? Isn’t that the flower that’s so common in Scotland? The one with the terrible smell?”
“There’s no terrible—” I stop, realizing by the twitch of his lips he’s baiting me. And enjoying it.
I smile sweetly. “Justin? As in just-in, just-out?”
His eyes gleam in appreciation. “Only if you’re talking commitment.” He lifts his face to the sun. “Heather doesn’t suit you.”
“You’re an expert on names now?”
“Names, no.” He grins. “Women, yes.”
I snort. The ego on this man. When he offers no further comment, curiosity spreads like a virus under my skin. “Why doesn’t Heather suit me?”
“It implies a free spirit and you’re anything but free.”
“Whose rules am I supposedly bound by?”
“Your parents’. Society’s. Your own.”
“Most rules are there for our benefit. Boundaries are good.”
“If you’re comfortable living in a prison.”
Before I can respond, Justin whistles and the two Alsatians trot obediently over to him.
“Are they yours?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “They belong to my folks. Two out of the hundreds of strays they’ve collected over the years.”
“Your parents sound wonderful.”
A brooding expression clouds his handsome face. “A lot of people think so.”
What about you? I’m tempted to ask but keep silent because I’m not sure I want to know the answer. He’s not the easiest person to converse with and all this small talk is a strain. When are we going to discuss my work at SolomiChem?
After we’ve walked for a while in silence, I ask, “Do you own any pets?”
“Heads up, TT. Pets is an outdated term in animal rights circles.”
“Really?”
“Really,” he confirms, a corner of his mouth lifting at the surprise in my voice.
“What do I call them then?”
“Companion animals.”
“That’s ridiculous. What’s wrong with pets?”
“It implies ownership rather than companionship or guardianship.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, do you have any companion animals?”
“I share a townhouse with two guys. Our square of a garden is used for peeing in when we’re too drunk to lift the toilet seat.”
Just when we’re fumbling toward a decent conversation, I wonder why he feels it necessary to fire out statements aimed at shocking me. Choosing not to play his game, I say neutrally, “It’s nice of you to help your parents out by taking their dogs for a walk.”
“I don’t do it for my folks. I do it for these two rascals.”
We reach the water’s edge. At four in the afternoon, there are not too many people in the park, only the odd elderly couple out walking gray-muzzled dogs. The dark water of the lake is still, yellow-billed mallards keeping safely to the reeds on the other side.
Justin flops down on the grass verge and stretches out his legs. After a moment, I sit next to him. Sprawled close by, tongues hanging out, the two Alsatians are enjoying the rest.
“You have a cell phone?” Justin asks, getting down to business. At my nod, he says, “Your first couple of days in SolomiChem don’t worry about taking any pictures. First get a feel for the place and the people.”
“Okay.”
“Learn the layout of the building. Find out where the animals are kept. As much as I’d like to get my hands on SolomiChem’s procurement forms and necropsy reports, I don’t want you charged with theft.
” He digs around in his backpack and pulls out a floor plan.
“This will give you a rough idea of what a lab building looks like inside.” He points out the various rooms and tells me what to look out for in each one.
He also preps me on how to record the experiments. I need to take note of how many animals are involved, the companies commissioning the tests, the attitudes of the supervisors and animal technicians, and whether veterinary care is provided.
At the end of it, my mind is buzzing with all the information he’s pumped in. Although I’m still daunted by the task ahead of me, Justin’s briefing has also left me more comfortable about my first day at work on Wednesday.
“I did some research on Huntingdon Life Sciences last night,” I say casually, stroking the female Alsatian’s tummy. “According to Google, HLS have been infiltrated a number of times.”
Justin slants me a look I can’t decipher. “You checked up on me. I’m surprised. And impressed.”
“The thing is, even after all the undercover investigations and public exposure, HLS are still operating. So what good did all that work do? And how much change can I achieve in only one month?”
“It’s not as bad as you make it out to be,” he says slowly, and I’m thankful he’s treating my question seriously.
“Huntingdon had to rebrand themselves. They’ve suffered heavy financial losses, and banks and insurers are reluctant to do business with them.
” He scratches the male Alsatian’s ear. “Anyway, SolomiChem are not in Huntingdon’s league.
We’re hoping that’ll make them more vulnerable to negative publicity and public pressure. ”
“But if legislation demands that new products have to be tested on animals, shouldn’t we rather be focusing our efforts on the government?”
“If you want to throw stones at a tank.”
“But—”
“There are mainstream anti-vivisection groups who’ll bombard the government with petitions and protest marches. If that’s the route you want to adopt, you’re better off with them.”
My lips tighten. “I told you before, I’m committed. I’m simply exploring other avenues.”
“I suggest you stick to the path, Red Riding Hood.”
“There’s one other matter. It concerns what happened to the MD of Huntingdon.”
“Brian Cass?”
“Yes.”
Justin rolls his shoulders. “Afraid I’ll take a pickax handle to the skull of SolomiChem’s CEO?”
“I don’t approve of that kind of violence.”
“Never for one moment thought you did.”
“Justin, I’m serious.”
“Relax, TT. Our pickax handles and letter bombs are all tucked away. Kane’s moral code is to do no physical harm.”
What about your moral code? I wonder, but I don’t ask. Not when I’m nervous of his answer.
#
At home that evening, sitting at the dinner table with my parents and sixteen-year-old sister, Karina, I have trouble concentrating on the conversation. I absently push roast potatoes and steamed vegetables around my plate, my appetite non-existent, while the others devour their steaks.
I’m the only vegetarian in the family. My mother insists I’m going through a phase. Never mind that the phase has lasted over three years. I don’t hold it against my parents. This way of life is all they’ve ever known.
On the opposite end of the scale, my sister doesn’t much care what she puts in her mouth.
For her, food converts itself into energy and that enables her to play her beloved violin.
While Karina pays little attention to animals, my father maintains my interest started the moment I learned to walk and headed straight to our slit-eyed Persian on the couch.
My interest reached its life-changing peak halfway through high school.
One morning, I walked into my biology class to discover that on every desk was the splayed body of a frog we were required to dissect.
I looked at my dead frog and listened to the crude jokes and squeals of my classmates as they sliced away. Suddenly, I had enough.
Praying blindly, I walked slowly to the front of the classroom, stopping in front of Mr. Stratoudakis’s desk, my heart pounding so hard I was sure everyone could hear it.
No one voluntarily approached Mr. Stratoudakis, not unless they were prepared to be the target of an acerbic comment or a biting dismissal.
“What is it?” he asked, not looking up from the papers he was marking.
I cleared my throat. “Sir, I can’t do this dissection.”
“Feeling squeamish, Walker? Get over it. You told me you want to work with animals. That’ll never happen if you don’t overcome your queasiness.”
“It’s not that. It’s...” I tried to sound firm, but my voice came out weak and uncertain. “I have a moral objection to dissection.”
He finally looked up at me. “You want to say that again?”
Not really. Actually, I wish I could take it back. Reluctantly, I repeated my statement.
He glared at me. “Are you telling me what we’re doing here is immoral?”
By now, a few of the students had noticed the exchange, stopping their work to listen. I could hear the whispering, feel the stares on my back.
Why, oh why, did I have to speak out?
When I remained silent, he said dismissively, “Go sit down, Walker, and finish the dissection. I’ll try to forget you came up here spouting such garbage.”
Oh, it was tempting. I could slink away and slip back into the skin of the quiet, attentive girl who diligently completed her assignments and tried not to draw attention to herself. But I couldn’t do it.
Dry-mouthed, I managed to push the words out. “Sir, for ethical reasons, I would like to request an alternative to animal dissection.”
An incredulous expression crossed my teacher’s face.
“Dissection is an important part of this curriculum, young lady. Its inclusion is determined by educators a lot more qualified than a fifteen-year-old girl. While you don’t seem to recognize hands-on experience as an invaluable learning tool, they do.
” He made a scoffing sound. “You want to know what happens if I make an exception for you? Tomorrow, students will have a moral objection to completing their homework because it’ll interfere with quality time with their dogs. ”
He made me sit outside the classroom for the rest of the lesson.
I went home in tears and my parents took my case to the principal.
Ultimately, it was my request for a non-animal alternative to dissection that dangled a legal case before the school.
They backed down. But Mr. Stratoudakis never forgave me for showing him up like that and he made his class a new form of torture for me, belittling me every opportunity he got.
The subject I enjoyed most now became one I dreaded.
Ironically, my stand gave me a cult status among the students.
I was the first student in my school to refuse to dissect—although this was overshadowed by the fact I was also the first student to challenge Mr. Stratoudakis—and overnight I went from teacher’s pet to popular rebel.
It also earned me the nickname Kermit, which stayed with me until I graduated.
Although my parents publicly took my side, in private it was another matter.
“All this fuss over a frog?” my mom asked, bewildered.
“It wasn’t just about a frog, Mom. It was about unnecessary cruelty.”
“But the frog was already dead.”
“But it didn’t have to die. Biology is supposed to be the study of life.”
I pull myself out of the memory and poke at the food on my plate. For all my differences with my parents, I love them and dislike deceiving them with this undercover role. If they ever find out the truth of what I’m doing, I dread how hurt they’ll be.